


Carry On; The Keeping Calm Is Optional

by katmayfair



Series: Autumn of Malcontent [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Multi, Rockstar AU, bisexual clara is the best sort of clara
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katmayfair/pseuds/katmayfair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara's the agent for the most ludicrous and lucrative rockstar she's met in a while, and he's basically a walking set of problems. Rockstar AU (working title was 'the ageing rockstar', so you can go figure), lots of characters, good fun. This is my circuit-breaker fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry On; The Keeping Calm Is Optional

This was the fifth resignation letter Clara had gotten from a backing singer in as many weeks. Which was a preposterous turnover, given that the Doctor only performed with two of them. At her desk, looking down on the Mayfair street, she pushed the letter away from herself and pulled another sheet of paper across it. In her inbox was another copy. Because singers, apparently, were anything if not modern.

Clara wasn't one for fiddling while she tried to think. The pedestrians outside were walking fast, keen to be out of the drizzle that was an uncharacteristically malicious London autumn. Her thumb drew vague circles on the wood of her desktop.

She emailed the singer back, wishing them luck in their future. She didn't want to pry just yet. And she texted the Doctor.

_Lost another backup singer. Who should I be talking to about this._

She watched the message shoot off into cyberspace, then called the stage manager. Christina was a wholly capable woman who could keep track of individual amp cables within the traveling circus of a rock concert, and dealt out logistics with an iron fist whilst wearing designer underwear.

Phone on speaker on her desk, she watched as a message came back in while it rang.

_Chrissi. But you're already talking to her, right? We can talk about it if we go to the pub_.

“Clara, how's it hanging?” Christina picked up, finally. She sounded like she was in the middle of something.

“You got the email, right?” Clara had no time to not cut to the chase.

“Yes...” She replied. The noise behind her call faded away. “It's concerning.”

“It should have been concerning at three, but I was up to my gills in press, and the shows seemed fine, so I was going to let it slide. But now...” They were due to start touring domestically in a week, which meant that things had to be running smoother than Hugh Grant's dance moves.

“So do you know where this is coming from?” She asked.

“I have a suspicion, but I'm not sure,” Christina said. She sounded hedgey, like there was something she didn't want to let on.

“Do I have to have a word with someone?” Clara asked. She had her head propped up on a hand, weight of her world pressing down somewhere between her shoulderblades.

“No, it's not him,” Thea said. “But he might be able to offer some insight.”

“Good. So put out for a new one and call me when you want to actually share what you're thinking, Christina.” She ended the call, missing, for a second, the days where it was possible to slam the handset down.

 

_Fine,_ she texted the Doctor back.  _But you're buying._

The pub they habitually lunched at was a ten-minute cab ride from Clara's office, and she made enough of a show of unwinding her scarf when she walked through the door that her pint of cider was already half-poured by the time she slid into her habitual seat facing the window. There was a touch of guilt in the Doctor's eyes as he set it in front of her a moment later, but he looked pleased to see her – if only for a reprieve from the studio, from endless rehearsals. He was known for a punishing work ethic, but Clara knew exactly how easy it was to say 'let's go for a drink' and have him drop everything.

Until it was 3am and she got a message with a ten-point list.

She smiled back over the bliss of her first sip of cider. They really did have the good stuff. Which, she supposed, was what you'd expect in the posh bits of London where they charged more than five pounds for a pint.

“So did Chrissi tell you anything?” He asked. His pint was dark and smelled almost nutty from across the table, and he drank the top two inches of it with worrying ease.

“No,” Clara said. “She is being hedgey, and has clearly forgotten that my 'need to know' basis is that I need to know everything.”

“Ah, Clara.”

“Don't 'Ah, Clara' me,” she groused. “This could have implications for lots of things that fall smack bang in the middle of my responsibilities.”

“I know,” he said. “But I think this is less of a problem, than a feature of the crew right now.” He flipped open a menu. Clara reached across and shut it again. Her purple nails caught the glow of the flickering candle on the table.

“Explain.”

“Fine.” He pushed the menu away again and tapped his fingers against the wood. He looked like he was casting about for words, and that concerned Clara even more; the Doctor was legendary for moments where tact was something that happened to other people, on different continents.

“Christina has a knack for hiring people who are as ambitious as she is,” he started. Clara watched him carefully. He had a soft spot for Christina whereas Clara was, despite the woman's blistering capability, irrationally cautious where she was concerned.

“And this leads to them quitting why?” she was making steady progress on her drink, feeling like she deserved it.

“Well from what I've been seeing – and this is just in my role as the über-talent – they've all set off to find bigger and better things. Which is mildly insulting, if you think about it.”

“Huh.” Clara let him have the menu back, and leaned back in her chair, eyeing the specials board over his left shoulder.

“Food for thought, no?” he said.

“Yeah... I can see why Christina wasn't so keen to tell me,” she mused. “D'you know what you want?"

 

With lunch and their second drinks put on Clara's expenses card, the mood was much more relaxed. Clara was mulling over what he'd said while he talked about the seasonality of beer, and how he had a mate up north who microbrewery; if the tour was taking them anywhere near it, they should drop by. Of course he had no idea what the itinerary was. Clara shrugged and said she'd look it up later, but she actually thought it was a solid idea. Give the lot of them a day to wind down, if the schedule worked and the wind blew from the right direction.

The food at the pub really was excellent; the fish and chips seemed like summer on a plate, or possibly just heart disease, but at any rate Clara was happy.

“So what we're dealing with is... Either someone using Christina as a talent scout, or someone within our outfit pushing these people away, for some reason,” she said, her mind sweeping back to the problem that had brought her there.

The Doctor looked up from the tattered remains of his lamb shank.

“I was thinking the same,” he said. “But I haven't been paying enough attention to them to know which. I mean, they've been good lately, but... That's Chrissi, she's got a knack.”

“She does,” Clara agreed. “I'm going to have to get her to tone them down for a while. Keep the show stable for the next few weeks at least.”

The Doctor shrugged.

“They aren't the centre of attention, but it seems a shame anyway.”

“You didn't get where you are by settling for second best,” Clara said.

The look he gave her was a wry smile, a bit of self-satisfaction, and a whole chunk of appreciation.

“That's it,” he said. “So this is all sorts of shit.”

“It's shit on principle,” Clara said. “In reality, not much will change.” She held up a hand before she could be cut off by an indignant Scottish accent. “Do not start, especially after Christina kept me in the dark.”

He picked up his pint again instead of replying.

“Thanks,” Clara said.

He put his glass down.

“Contrary to popular opinion, I can be reasonable.”

“I know. Anyway. What are you procrastinating on while we're sitting here gossiping?” She asked.

“Oh, lots of things. Calling Rory, mainly,” he said.

“You should do that,” Clara said. “He'll pine if you don't.”

“I know, I know."

“Anyway. Both of us need to get back to work."

“Come by? You can call Rory, that'll make him happy.”

Clara rolled her eyes and checked her phone.

“Fine.”

They caught the cab back to the studio overlooking the Thames with the Doctor occaisonally guffawing at something particularly amusing he'd been sent on his phone. He showed Clara the jpg of him at his now-infamous pants-only gig with the caption 'Doctor rocked our worlds – with budget costuming' with a grimace. She laughed and smirked at him from over her tablet.

“Made an impact. Good.”

He eyed her sarcastically, handing the driver his card.

“We've got work to do, and it won't be done if we're both too self-congratulatory this afternoon,” he said.

Clara got out and started digging through her bag for the door keys.

“I think we'll survive,” was all she replied.


End file.
